


To Live Again

by lesyeuxverts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Candles, M/M, Religious Themes, Semi-Public Sex, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesyeuxverts/pseuds/lesyeuxverts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are bells to mark the hours. There are candles to mark the days, each one burning down to a stub before it is entirely gone. Remus has to scrounge for coins to buy new ones. They are cheaper in the Muggle shop down the road from his flat, though those candles flicker and smoke, leaving sooty rings on his ceiling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Live Again

The flame-coloured mums have given way to beds of wet black earth, and the gardeners, having done their work, are gone. James and Lily have been dead for three months.  
  
There are bells to mark the hours. There are candles to mark the days, each one burning down to a stub before it is entirely gone. Remus has to scrounge for coins to buy new ones. They are cheaper in the Muggle shop down the road from his flat, though those candles flicker and smoke, leaving sooty rings on his ceiling.   
  
The streets have been filled with crisp, rustling leaves; with soggy, sodden leaves that slip under the feet and turn the color of bright rust when the sun shines again; with the first crystals of frost, etching star-shaped patterns on the pavement; with the crisp crust of a new snowfall and the grey downtrodden slush of evening. The seasons have changed, and the world has turned, and James and Lily are cold in their graves, buried under the hard earth and beyond the reach of time.  
  
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Remus walks on – the streets blur together, one after the other, and his knuckles are cracked from the wind. The hem of his robe drags through puddle after puddle of slush, and he's soaked to the skin.   
  
Building, building, the churchyard full of headstones and trees weeping under their burden of snow and ice – it has been a hard January, and the streets are all the same. There's nothing of the Christmas cheer left in the city. The buildings cast their shadows dark on the snow, and the wreaths and the holly are gone; shoppers have put away their red scarves and hats, and go about blank-faced and black-coated, their boots tapping on the pavement as they stride down the streets, jumping over puddle after puddle. Their umbrellas shield them from the world, and none of them swerve to avoid knocking into Remus.   
  
Remus stops to catch his breath, leans against the wrought-iron bars that fence in the churchyard. A hard year, once the celebrations that closed out the end of the war were done – once he had stopped turning to speak to James and Sirius and Peter, his heart stopping each time he found them gone – once the solstice had passed and plunged them into the darkest part of the year. The days dwindle, and even now, the sunlight is almost gone. Remus squares his shoulders and slips through the gate.   
  
He goes into the church and finds it empty, priest and parishioners gone. After the Mass has been said, only snuffed candles and prickle-green ferns, winter pale and wilting, remain.   
  
The door shuts with a bang behind him, and Remus whirls. The black bars of iron that separate the panes of stained glass are like the black tree branches that split the sky into smaller pieces, sectioning the world and dividing up the weak winter sunlight. The church is full of shadows and the faint smoky scent of incense; clouds pass over the sun, and the little light that shone through the glass weakly is gone. Severus Snape is there.  
  
He advances on Remus, looming over him until he backs into the nearest pew, coming up against the hard wood. A hymn book falls to the floor with a thump – Remus puts his hands up, pushing Snape away. "Don't."  
  
"Remus."  
  
The silence between words is like the silence between clinks of coins, dropping into the collection plate – not golden, but as silver and cold as the winter sky, shining through the small clear panes in the stained glass windows, chips of clear light between the blue and crimson and gold. Lily's red hair – James's hazel eyes – the world had been drawn out in colours, once, and now there is only Snape, white and black, with a skull and snake etched on his forearm.   
  
"Don't," Remus says again, but Snape presses him up against the pew and kisses him. His eyes close; his lashes are fluttering against his pale skin; Remus closes his own eyes, not wanting to look at Snape, who is haloed against the dark door of the church, cast in the pearl-grey light coming through the clouds and through the rose window. The sun is not strong enough to cast any heat through the cold, not strong enough to warm the two of them in this empty church. Snape is warm, pressed against Remus, the heat of his body coming through layers of sodden wool, skin swathed in robes and cloaks and trousers.  
  
The wool itches, wet and scratchy against Remus's skin. Snape's fingers brush the back of his neck – a scrape of his fingernail, the rough calluses on his fingertips, he is touching Remus and moving closer, closer. His breath puffs against Remus's cheek when he pulls back from the kiss.  
  
At Hogwarts, by the lake, the sunlight had been bright, sparkling on the weed-green water. Remus had kissed Snape in the shadows on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, just out of the reach of discovery – James and Lily, Peter and Sirius close enough to hear, almost close enough to see. Snape's skin had been dappled in the shadows, patterned with lines and light. Remus had touched him and come away wanting, still stick-thin and pale as the moon waxed, still nowhere near to the glow that surrounded James and Lily. It had been different for Remus – he was not bright and beautiful as they were, not touched by the sunlight.   
  
It is different now. Snape's hands are on him, Snape is pushing him down into the pew, peeling open the layers of wet wool and laying him bare. Remus pushes him away. "Don't."  
  
"I followed you here," Snape says, his hand still on Remus's thigh. "I would follow you – I would–"  
  
The sun comes out from behind the clouds, a sudden burst of light washing through the church. Remus blinks until he can see, his eyes watering, his fingers closing on empty space when he reaches for Severus.   
  
"I would have helped you live," Snape says, his fingers brushing the ragged hem of Remus's sleeve.   
  
He presses a coin into Remus's hand, closing his fingers around its solid edges. The metal is warm. "Live, Remus."  
  
It has been three months since James and Lily died – three months since Peter died and Sirius was taken away. Christmas has come and gone, and the church still smells of frankincense and myrrh, of pine needles and hothouse Christmas roses; they were red against the green ferns; they were wilting, weeks ago; they are gone, thrust into a trash heap somewhere, not a petal left here now.   
  
It has been three years since Remus and Snape kissed in the shadow of the Forest – it has been years since Snape knelt before the Dark Lord, offering his arm up to be Marked. "Live for yourself and not for him," Remus had told him.  
  
When the door has slammed shut and Snape is gone, Remus crosses himself in front of the altar – he lights a votive candle, pressing the coin that Snape gave him into the wax as it warms. He passes his fingers over the flame, casting shadows onto the candle and warming his fingers.   
  
When his fingers are warm, he will leave the church. When he is warm, he will go out into the world and live.


End file.
